


Lexa Going About Her Day Through Clarke's eyes

by HurricaneJane



Series: Quality Ingredients One Shots [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricaneJane/pseuds/HurricaneJane
Summary: All of the one shots from Tumblr!Prompt: A character sketch of Lexa going about her day and doing totally mundane stuff like brushing her teeth and grocery shopping. I just love your characterization is all!
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: Quality Ingredients One Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589668
Comments: 8
Kudos: 222





	Lexa Going About Her Day Through Clarke's eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your support! I have gotten a few asks from Tumblr friends about if the one shots are available on AO3, so here are some of the works from my hiatus. I am still working on the main story, but always interested in one shot ideas to keep my skills sharp!

Clarke had a lot of words for Lexa. 

Lexa was soft. She was strong. Surprisingly so for her lean frame. She was resilient. She was very smart. She was so talented. She was stylish. She was too sexy for her own good. She was funny and she was sweet. After weeks and weeks of piling up words for the woman she was learning to love, Clarke realized there was an overwhelmingly apparent word to describe Lexa.

She was methodical.

Everything she did, every little thing about Lexa, had a rehearsed order and a diligent process.

She had a routine for everything. There was a right and a wrong way for every mundane task.

All of Lexa’s shirts and suits were custom tailored by the same man who owned the corner shop in the east end. Her father took all of his shirts there, too. Every cuff of every dress shirt hit her wrist at exactly the right length. Every tie just touched her belt buckle once it was clipped in place. Lexa could tie the perfect Windsor knot while she was chasing Clarke around the house announcing that they were going to be late. She didn’t need a mirror. Her hands knew what to do.

Her bookshelves were all organized by genre and author and date. In every room. Her desk drawers were immaculate with little wooden boxes for paperclips and staples. Most of them had her initials, or her fathers, or her grandfathers, all of which happened to be the same as hers, burned on them. She actually used a letter opener and kept it in a specific spot on her desk.

Lexa’s closet was immaculate. It looked like a store. Every shirt hung perfectly on every hanger. They were organized by color. Her suits all hung in a row and all of their sleeves were the exact same length.

She shined her shoes regularly. 

Clarke stopped short after doing her make up in the master bath one night before they went out for dinner. Lexa sat on the edge of the bed, rag in hand, top few buttons undone and a bow tie untied hanging loosely around her neck, shining a pair of shoes. Her socks had little tomatoes on them and Clarke thought it was the most darling thing she had ever seen.

They were all Lexa had on once Clarke was done with her and their dinner reservations were long forgotten like the shoe polish kit on the floor beside Lexa’s wingtips.  
Lexa had a high end electric toothbrush with a timer. She flossed and brushed and rinsed every morning and evening and had the process down to a science and knew it took four and a half minutes. 

Her house was clinically clean, but Clarke never caught her cleaning it. There was no housekeeper that she was aware of. Mail never piled up. Shoes always went back in the closet. Books had a place in shelves even when they were being read. Remotes had drawers, coats went in closets and brief cases stashed in the office out of site.  
And the food.

Clarke couldn’t even get started on the food.

Lexa’s kitchen had the precision, sterilization and organization of the operating rooms Clarke spent her long days in. Every single item had a place. Lexa knew where everything was. She could cook with her eyes closed by touch and smell alone in that kitchen.

Clarke found out the hard way that going grocery shopping with Lexa was nothing short of an ordeal. Every tomato had to be gently squeezed. Herbs had to be touched, smelled, sometimes tasted. Fruit had to pass a physical and visual and olfactory inspection. Fresh vegetables had a strict set of squeezes and grips before they were allowed in the cart. 

And meats.

There was a discussion with the butcher every time that ranged from diet to lifestyle of the animal, where it was raised and some stuff Clarke had never even heard of. The fish counter was a fucking nightmare. There was too much to talk about, smell, touch, taste. Every cut had to be deliberated with a committee of employees behind the fish counter before it was wrapped in brown paper and made its way into Lexa’s cart.

Thankfully, Whole Foods often had wine tastings.

Clarke always thought going to the grocery store with Lexa sounded delightful in theory. It usually started that way. She loved watching her girl in her element. Lexa understood food on a level way above Clarke’s head. But by the time she picked up the sixth bell pepper that looked the same as the first five and decided it wasn’t going to work for her, Clarke would roll her eyes and hope they had a red blend out for samples today.

The way Lexa drove her car was specific. Even in the sandy, salty, dirty throws of winter, Lexa’s black SUV always looked like she had just driven it off the lot. She had a ton of hair that should be a mess given her lifestyle, but Lexa always had it tucked up neatly. She always had exactly the correct words and tone for every occasion and for all company.

But there was one thing in Lexa’s life that she wasn’t a perfectionist about and Clarke loved it.

Lexa slept hard. 

Some nights she slept spread out on her back with Clarke curled up to her side. Some nights she was completely diagonal across the bed forcing Clarke to snuggle in or get diagonal with her. Sometimes it was a head on Clarke’s bare belly, one leg hooked on top of the duvet and the other threaded through Clarke’s.  
The only time those chestnut curls misbehaved was when Lexa slept. 

Clarke loved to wake up first to catch which sprawled out Lexa she was going to get. Maybe it was hands tucked under her head while she was the big spoon. Maybe it would be the fetal position hugging one of Clarke’s arms. Maybe it would be Clarke’s favorite, naked with a smile in her sleep, stretched out on her back in exactly the position Clarke left her in gasping for breath when she finished with Clarke half on top.

They were all as delicious as the last.

There were quiet moments, each of them sweet and each of them different before Lexa left the bed and became The Commander with her oral hygiene routine and her perfectly placed slippers and her pressed shirts. There were kissed fingers and whispered declarations before starched chef coats and pinned back hair. There were touches, the gentlest, most inviting, instinctive touches that always excited before face wash and snow shoveling and precision breakfasts and discussions of schedules and who needed a ride where and if Clarke should just take the car.

Clarke only had one word for Lexa in those precious moments between sleep and real life.

She was perfect.


End file.
